Heavy Things

It is nearly dinnertime. After I got back from the diner, I fell asleep on the floor beside the couch, and now I’m waking up, yawning, looking around and feeling a bit disoriented. Tom turns on the reading lamp beside the armchair, and the rest of the house is so dark. Fall is here, and with it comes early dusk and cold breezes through the open windows.

Tom stands and walks over to the couch where you are cocooned in your blanket. “Could we have a little chat?” he asks.

You nod, your face placid.

“Why don’t you sit up, Pearl?” I say.

With a sigh you bring yourself up to a sitting position and remove the blanket from your head, still keeping it close around the rest of your body. Tom comes over and sits in one of the padded, antique wooden chairs perpendicular to the couch. I walk away, across the room to his armchair, the one he had been perched on all day. Interestingly enough, I can see the lake from there, through the glass deck doors. I didn’t know he could see the water from that spot.

“Now, Pearl,” he begins, and there is something fundamentally different about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it. The easy explanation is that it’s his counselor persona, but I feel that it’s something deeper. “I want to have a heart-to-heart with you.”

You give a resigned sort of nod like you know what’s coming, aren’t looking forward to it, but see no reason to avoid it.

“Your grandfather says—”

“Grampy,” you interrupt. “He’s my Grampy.”

“Of course,” Tom says, smiling agreeably. “Of course. Your Grampy says that you’ve been talking with an older woman the last few days.”

You nod, and your face is like calm water. “She’s not older. At least I don’t think she is. Not old like you and Grampy, even though she does have silver hair. I can’t really see her face very clearly all the time. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her late forties. But she’s in very good shape.”

Tom seems impressed with the detail you’re providing, although I can’t tell if that’s part of his strategy or if it’s genuine.

“Does she have a name?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Hmmm. Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?”

“Not really,” you answer. “There are plenty of people we don’t call by name.”

Tom raises his eyebrows in a question.

“You know, like a police officer. You call them ‘Officer.’ Or the lady who works in the crosswalk. I always call her ‘ma’am,’ but I don’t know her name.”

“That’s a good point, Pearl. I understand. What should I call her, you know, when we’re talking about her?”

You shrug as if this is the last thing in the world that matters to you. “‘The woman,’ I guess.”

“When did you first see the woman?”

“I guess it was in art class, although I think I saw her around the city a couple of times, back when I used to go for walks.”